The Final Lair
by MagicalMysteryPhantom
Summary: The mob gets Erik after the final lair scene, sort of book and musical.


Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera or Gaston Leroux. I guess I own Garcen.

THE FINAL LAIR

Daroga ran down the last turns in the staircase. He could hear the jeers of the mob, laughs, and the sound of a whip cracking. He heard an unfamiliar voice call out, "C'mon, Corpse, try to get away!" The whip cracked again and the mob laughed. Fearing for the worst,

Daroga waded around the last bend, where a horrible sight met his eyes.

There was the mob, surrounding an unseen target. There was blood on the floor, and a mask lay alone, thrown to one side.

Daroga forced himself forward, pulling a gun from inside his jacket.

A faint groaning sound came from the middle of the crowd. The leader laughed and raised his whip again.

"The next person to touch him is dead."

The laughter stopped. The mob turned to Daroga, who had just spoken. His gun was held steady. Now he could see the motionless figure lying on the ground in the center, his black clothing stained with blood. A shudder went through the body as it drew breath.

"Go about your business." Daroga said. "Leave the man to die in peace."

"After a few moments of silence, the crowd dispersed, going back towards the staircase. The one with the whip grabbed Daroga's shoulder as he left.

"We'll be back for what's left of the circus freak later." He said with an evil smile. Then he too headed towards the staircase. Daroga immediately crouched down next to Erik. His breath was coming in ragged gasps and blood spilled from a wound on his head – probably caused by a rock.

"Are . . . they gone . . . ?" Erik managed to choke out.

"Yes," Daroga said.

"They . . . wouldn't . . . stop." The tortures of many years were in his eyes.

"They've stopped now." Daroga said.

"Good." Erik whispered. "Now . . . now I can finally sleep."

"No!" Daroga said. "You have to live!"

Erik tensed. "Why?" He asked slightly stronger. "They're gone now. . . ." His body relaxed. "What is there to . . . live . . . for? I will never have to . . . think about . . . Raoul and Christine. . . . Or my mother. . . . I will never have to see Garcen . . . again."

Daroga didn't wonder who Garcen was. He didn't have time to. He had to save Erik. "Please, please," He prayed aloud, hoping someone merciful was listening.

He heard a pistol cock.

Turning around, he saw the pistol aimed directly at him, and the man holding it was the one with the whip.

"Who are you?" Daroga asked, jumping to his feet and grabbing his own gun. Only then did he realize that he was covered in Erik's blood.

The man smiled that evil smile again. "I'm the one," He said loudly, "Who taught the little skeleton freak to be afraid of the whip."

There was a Bang! And the man – whom Daroga now thought was surely Garcen – fell dead. A look of surprise was on his face.

"Good shot, Daroga," A weak voice said from behind him. Daroga knelt down next to Erik. The man was now actually looking at him, and Daroga saw that his eyes, previously empty and black, were now a rich golden color. Erik was smiling – the action had reopened a wound on his face which was now bleeding freshly.

"Erik!" Daroga said. "You're going to survive!"

"No, Daroga, I'm not." Fear momentarily filled the new, yet somehow familiar, golden eyes. Then it was gone. "My wounds are to many, and too deep."

"No!" Daroga said. "We could heal all of them, with a proper doctor, then you'd. . . ." He trailed off, realizing what Erik meant. He glanced around, as if to confirm the fact. "You gave her away." He said quietly. "You gave her to Raoul."

A tear slipped down Erik's face, where it instantly melded with the blood. "Her happiness is more important than mine."

A shout came from above, followed by the sound of a whip. The fear flooded back into Erik's eyes. "Where are they?" He asked, trying to sit up.

Daroga pushed him back down. Erik flinched, and Daroga moved his hand of a wound where blood was now gushing. "They're not here." He said. But the fear did not leave those golden eyes.

"Is he . . . is he . . . dead?" Erik asked. He gestured weakly with a clenched hand toward the body behind Daroga.

"Yes." Daroga said. "Was he Garcen?"

Erik nodded, an action he immediately regretted. The Persian man became blurry as nausea took over.

Daroga watched, horrified at what his friend was having to go through. "Why would anyone do this?" He asked no one in particular.

Erik coughed several times, then spoke. "They hate me, just because I'm different. Trying to hide the fact only makes it more painfully obvious in the end." He coughed several more times, each of which drew blood from his mouth. "Daroga. . . ." He tried, then started coughing again.

"Don't speak." Daroga said, placing his hand on Erik's shoulder. Erik shrugged him off, the movement causing more wounds to open.

"Daroga . . . I'm sorry. For . . . for everything."

Tears started rolling down Daroga's face. Erik shuddered and put a hand to his stomach, where he had quite obviously been stabbed. Daroga noticed a bloody sword at his side – Erik's own sword. Daroga instantly felt repulsed. He could see it happening in his mind's eye: The already weakened Erik pulls out his sword in an attempt to defend himself – a

member of the mob takes it – laughing, the man stabs Erik with it – Erik falls to the ground.

It was Erik's shallow, uneven breathing that brought Daroga back to reality. The hand that Erik had put to his stomach was now completely immersed in blood. Erik looked more alarmed than ever now, and Daroga panicked, not knowing why. Then it came to him. Erik needed reassurance.

"Goodbye, friend," Daroga said. "Great things are in store for you. More happiness than

you have ever known is waiting."

Once Erik realized that the Persian believed what he saying, he relaxed. All fear and pain left his golden eyes. He smiled up at some unseen angel, then his eyes closed. His breathing slowed, and eventually stopped. The smile did not leave Erik's face.

Daroga knelt next to the body for some time. He let the tears come, and made no effort

to stop them. _Erik deserved those tears,_ he thought. After a while, a soft hand slipped into his.

He looked up into the beautiful face of Christine Daae. She was crying too. Raoul watched from a distance. Daroga had no idea how long they'd been there, or even how long he'd been there. Daroga looked back down at the body. Something shimmered in Erik's clenched hand. Curiously, Daroga reached down and pried it open.

In Erik's palm lay a small wedding ring.

EPILOGUE

A small group crowded around a single grave in a small, private field. The gravestone was made of perfect white marble. The Persian was there, Darius had come with him. Raoul and Christine were present, as was Madame Giry and her daughter, Meg. The group was staring at the freshly dug earth, gravestone, and the newly planted tree behind it. The gravestone read:

 **ERIK**

 **(DATES UNKNOWN)**

 **THE PHANTOM'S**

 **LEGEND WILL LIVE**

 **ON FOREVER**

 _ **Hide your face and the**_

 _ **world will never find**_

 _ **find you.**_

 __Then, as it started to rain, the small congregation left. All except one.

"Goodbye, my angel of music." Christine whispered. As she left, a voice echoed in her head: _"Your Angel of Music will never leave you."_

 **ALTERNATE ENDING**

Daroga looked at the box. He hadn't opened it in years. Written on the side in neat letters were the words 'Eric's things'. He sighed and opened it. On top was a black mask. Next was a folder labeled 'Don Juan Triumphant'. A handkerchief with Erik's name embroidered in the corner. A music box with a Persian Monkey on it, then a dried rose with a black ribbon tied around it. At the very bottom there was a small wedding ring with many documents. One document was called, in the same neat writing as box, 'Notes on Erik'. Daroga removed it from the box.

Gaston Leroux sat at his desk. How could he write about the mysterious Opera Ghost without any information?

A knock came on the door. Leroux sighed and went to answer it. On his front step was an old man in a wheelchair. He seemed foreign. Another man, presumably a servant, was standing behind him.

"Monsieur Leroux?" The old man asked. Definitely Persian, Leroux decided.

"Yes." He replied.

"I heard you were looking for information on the Phantom of the Opera?"

Leroux nodded.

"Here." The Persian handed him the folder. "My notes."

It all seemed to good to be true. "Did you know him?" Leroux asked excitedly.

The Persian smiled sadly. "Yes. I did."

Leroux took the folder. To him, it was pure gold. "Do you have anything else?"

"Darius?" The Persian said to the other man. Darius produced a box labeled 'Erik's things'.

"I expect it back in three months." The Persian said.

"Thank you!" Leroux said. "I am forever in your debt!"

"Remember that."


End file.
